The Defiant Truth
by WaywardFax
Summary: After the massive Queen of the Dragons was defeated, peace descended onto the northern islands. However, it was a gilded peace; scrape off the thin layer of friendship and underneath lies something far less pleasant... Rated T for now.


The room was darker than when he had gone to sleep, a quick glance around indicated that the fire in the hearth had gone out. A solitary torch flickered in the corner; a wandering draft waving hello. The village was quiet and serene, nothing but crickets and the distant cooing of an owl. Life was much more peaceful now. It seemed like none of the warriors really knew what to do with themselves now that almost all threats to their village had disappeared. Speaking of disappearances, where had the mead gone to? He traversed the floor carefully, in search of his stein, attempting to limit the creaking of the floorboards that were probably infested with termites.

He paused mid-step; something felt off. It was not the obvious feeling that you danced across your arms as goose bumps, but a subtle feeling that lingered in the air like smoke. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was definitely off. The mead could wait.

His calloused hand grasped the torch and pulled it roughly from its slot in the wall. He made his way slowly and silently by the warm light of his torch. Tip-toeing downstairs, he slithered past the sleeping dog, over the rug of the cave bear, and made it safely to the door. He had succeeded in not waking anyone up. His father was a brute when he was woken in the middle of the night. Truthfully, he was a brute no matter when he was awakened, and would surely decide that getting up because you 'felt weird' was no real reason to be up. The sneaking son cringed; that was an outcome he truly hoped did not happen. He made sure to shut the door quietly.

The grass was illuminated by the moonlight, a pale green that matched the color of his tunic. It was a rather fetching tunic; his mother had made it for him before she passed away two years ago. Every time he wore it, he was reminded of her.

The sky was a beautiful deep indigo, the stars floating over the ocean which stretched on endlessly to embrace some unseen shore. It truly was a beautiful night, but that did not explain the feeling that lay entrenched in the man's stomach.

It was probably just the last remaining remnants of a forgotten dream or, judging by the feeling, some fragmented nightmare.

He continued along the path that meandered languidly toward the village proper. Why his ancestors chose the highest point on the island baffled him. It was more work to get the village, and even more work to go back home. If it was a pride thing, it was stupid, dumb pride.

Despite his grumblings, the path continued on; an ever present fact. There was the village, the path, his house. The path was his guide to the freedom of the village, and his trail to torment at home. Guided by fate as an old friend, he continued ever downwards, the smoke from the houses below making his eyes sting and well with tears. Of course these weren't real tears; that would be a disgrace to his family if he was seen.

Reaching the edge of the town, he paused by the bench he so often utilized. It was an old, creaky thing that was older than many of the town's buildings. He only liked it because it was a good lookout; he could stay in town, while keeping a watchful eye on his home. If he saw a hint of a drunken shape stumbling outside, he took it as a cue to find a new spot in the village. The bench was cold, even through the layers of clothing he was wearing.

It was quiet in a way only a village could be. Wind rocked through the sign for the apothecary which made a soft tapping noise when it collided gently into the wall behind it. A slight bubbling could be heard from the artesian spring well in the center of town. Every now and then a snore came from some sleeping man not too far away. Serenity was not often a word he would use to describe his town, but now it seemed strangely fitting.

The bench sat against the ground. Just like his house had lumbered down into a cozy resting spot on the hilltop. Surprisingly similar places when it came down to it; the bench was his home away from home. One last glance up at the house. Still there.

The mood shifted as the wind kicked the swinging sign roughly into the door. A chill crept down his spine and his hairs stood on end. His bench was no longer the familiar comfort he previously knew. His feeling of something being off was magnified and alarms started going off in his mind. He could smell burning gas, a scent that came into town from a sea breeze.

Stumbling down the main causeway in his village, he ran toward the watch tower. It's rickety ladder groaned under his weight and stray bits of wood latched into his hand as splinters.

The village began to stir as they heard the clanging of the metal gong. This smell could only mean one thing, dragons, and the air was filled with it. There hadn't been a dragon attack in at least a year, but it was an unmistakable event.

Villagers had sprung into life, going to their old routines like clockwork. Water was being drawn from the well to ensure that any fires would be soon quenched.

Oh no. His father was alone on top of the hill. He ran to the path that had led him to freedom and looked onto the house. He started up the hill, but did not even get halfway. A shrieking whistle followed by a sonic boom. The house exploded with a burst of purple fire. That was the first shot fired before he saw the dragons. They were not normal beasts ; ordinary dragons did not fly in formation. His house was decimated, but he had to make sure his father was alright.

The heat from the house radiated out towards him as he carried himself up the hill, sweat causing his green tunic to cling damply to his body. With this heat it wouldn't be damp for long. Charred ground's crunch beneath his feet let him know that he had reached his destination as the smoke had already caused his eyes to blur and become near near useless. Wreckage, smoldering in a charred heap, made it clear that there would be no survivors.

Wiping the soot from his eyes he turned to view the town. Black smoke hovered over top of his town ominously, like a ebony bird of prey waiting patiently to swoop in on wings of silken night. The town burned. It's own flames gave it a harsh glow that made everything seem surreal, fake. A child was crying. Screams could be heard resonating through the air. The pungent, thick smell of burned flesh invaded his nose. Knees weak, he turned to the forest and ran; he could not watch anymore.

Smoke burned his nose, his eyes. Even after much thought he is unsure what caused the tears to stream down his face.

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**Let me know if it sounds ok; writing on a phone is way too much effort for what it puts out.**


End file.
